Famous Last Words
by comeonthensexy
Summary: John Watson lied when he told Sherlock what his last words would be. He couldn't tell him what he would really say-not until he is truly dying.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson tumbled to the ground, gasping with pain. He clasped a hand to his left shoulder, drawing back with surprise when he found it soaked in blood.

_Whose blood? Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock! _

The screams inside his head came out of his mouth in between panicked breaths. He couldn't get up—couldn't get his arm to move, gain purchase on the damp pavement. He had to get on his feet, had to help Sherlock. The gunfire had come out of nowhere. It wasn't random though. The shots were cold—calculated. The gunman wouldn't miss. He hadn't missed. Watson's shoulder was proof of that. His old war wound, reopened, and nobody to save him this time. Except Sherlock.

_Sherlock! _

"I'm here, John, I'm here! Lie still."

Sherlock Holmes kneeled over his friend, both hands pressed to the bleeding shoulder. His blue scarf brushed John's chin.

_Sherlock._

It was funny, John thought, that he was only panicked until he saw Sherlock, alive, unharmed. Things were perfectly fine, now that he was okay. His smooth, pale face was inches away from John's, perfectly formed lips shouting words that the doctor couldn't quite hear. Those damn eyes, wide with fear—

_Sherlock?_

"You stay with me, John, it's going to be fine! Damn it, stay with me!"

_Of course, Sherlock. I could never leave you._

John stared at the man over him. He was beautiful—so beautiful. The sculpted cheekbones, and the way they made his eyes stand out. The dark curls that the blond had always wanted to run his hand through. The long, graceful neck that seemed to beg for kisses. Even his narrow, strong, shoulders were beautiful, giving way to his lean, lanky arms. John longed to fall asleep in those arms. They were around him, now, one hand on the pavement next to the doctor's head, and the other pressing down on his shoulder. Watson was tired, very tired. He might as well fall asleep under Sherlock now. It was the closest he would ever get to the real thing.

His eyelids began to flutter.

"John Watson, you keep your eyes open! Look at me, look at me!"

_How could I look at anything else? Nothing is as interesting as you are, Sherlock._

A little curl was falling out of place, partially covering one of Sherlock's eyes. John longed to reach up and brush it away, but his arms wouldn't obey him. That was alright, he decided. He settled for gazing at the pale, stormy green eyes around the curl. It bounced up and down as Sherlock shouted.

"It's going to be fine, it is, I promise! Just stay with me! Stay with me…"

_I'm right here._

Sherlock's lovely eyes began to blur with tears—what was that about? John watched as they began to overflow, catching on his dark lashes, running down his perfect face, and dripping off his chin… The doctor wished he could sit up and kiss them away, and then throw his arms around the detective and kiss him senseless, so he wouldn't feel the pain anymore.

"John, please… You aren't going to die, not now. Don't die on me!"

_I'm dying. Of course. I understand now. Sherlock… Sherlock. I lied to you. When I told you what my last words would be. Please, God, please, let me live. I don't want to leave him—I love Sherlock, I love him. Sherlock!_

His arm—the one that hurt slightly less—granted him this last request. He took a fistful of his friend's scarf, pulling him down, close.

"Sherlock…"

"Shh, John, it's alright," the detective sobbed. "You're going to be fine…"

"Sherlock." The doctor's breath came in short gasps. "Sherlock, I love you."

The man's desperate shouts choked off. Pale, green eyes widened with surprise, searching the doctor's face. He opened his mouth to say something, finally deciding against it and closing it. With a split second decision, his eyes slid shut as he cleared the tiny distance still between them. He pressed his soft mouth to Watson's, using his free hand to cup John's face. The pair lay there for a moment, an endless moment in the back alleyway. John could taste the tears on Sherlock's lips, and the blood from his own. It was perfect, and beautiful, and John couldn't imagine dying any other way.

Then, Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he was being ripped away from John. The doctor was aware of people around him, a sharp pain in his good arm—and everything faded into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks to those of you who read! Have Part II =3

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><p>John Watson awoke to a slow, steady, beep. Everything was too bright, and he snapped his eyelids shut in surprise. Preparing himself, he carefully opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the light. Where was he? He remembered gunfire, pain, the smell of blood. Was it another dream? He had nightmares of war all too often, but the slight throbbing in his shoulder told him this had been real. It slowly came back to him. The damp, narrow alley, the shot to his shoulder. Sherlock, kneeling over him, shouting. Crying. The way his lips had felt against John's—<p>

No. That part had to be a dream. Sherlock was married to his work, and nothing else mattered to the man. He would never have done that. It seemed to be such a real memory though.

Where was he, anyways? John tried to sit up. Big mistake. He nearly cried out at the pain in his chest and left shoulder. The man settled for swiveling his head around to see the room.

It was a hospital—he had guessed that. He was too sore to be dead, and the place was too clean and white to be their flat on Baker Street. His shoulder and torso were tightly wrapped in white bandages, and a white blanket covered him from the waist down. Something tickled his face, and John used his good arm to reach up, discovering a tube in his nose. He removed it; breathing in the harsh, clean smelling air. A heart monitor was placed to his left. The doctor in him noted that his heart rate was good, steady. A single window let in a bit of natural light, offering a view of the gray, London sky outside. He was in a private room—Mycroft's doing, John guessed.

He turned his head to the other side, letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, when he saw Sherlock curled up in a plastic chair, sleeping. John was glad for that; the detective hardly slept to begin with, and this case was taking even more of a toll on him. The blond could make out deep purple bags under his eyes, even when the man was resting. His dark curls were a wreck, hanging low down over his face, and sticking up almost as far. His paler-than-usual complexion was highlighted by the shadows that the fluorescent lights threw over his angular face. Even his long eyelashes were casting shadows down his cheeks.

Despite the state of disrepair, Sherlock still remained to be absolutely, stunningly gorgeous. A small smile came to John Watson's face as he watched the man—the man with the sharp tongue, and plenty of dislike from many people who had felt it's burn. The man with the sharp face, tall dark and handsome, with plenty of rejected would-be lovers to show for it. The man with the impossibly sharp mind, who had innumerable enemies, and John's hospital bill to prove it.

Yet, while he was sound asleep, John couldn't help but see what an innocent, broken child he was underneath it all. It made him all that much more beautiful to the doctor.

The detective stirred, stretching his long legs out in front of him, leaning his head back against the chair. He lazily opened his eyes, seeming confused, as if he had fallen asleep by accident. Which, Watson thought, was probably the case.

Once he had gotten his bearings, Sherlock turned his head to see his friend's state; when he saw John, awake, he flew to his side in an instant, clearing the distance in one long lope.

"John—John…" For once, the man was at a loss for words. There was so much he wanted to say… He finally settled for, "How are you feeling?"

"Alive. My shoulder hurts like a mother… What happened?"

His friends eyes narrowed, gazing at nothing in particular. "Moran. He was in one of the buildings on either side of the alley. He ran when I went after him with your Browning, but not before he shot you." Holmes shifted his gaze to John's face. "If that bullet had been another three inches to the right, it would have… It would have…"

Much to his embarrassment, he felt his pale eyes go misty. They had been doing that a lot lately. It was quite annoying.

Resting his head and shoulders on the hospital bed, Sherlock hid his face in the blankets around John. His reassuring warmth was enough to stop the tears, and he steadied himself enough to go on.

"It would have killed you John, on contact." He hid his face in the bed again.

Watson began to run his free hand through his friend's messy curls, noting the slight tension that appeared in Holmes' shoulders when he first made contact. He relaxed after a moment, letting the steady hand play through the dark locks.

After another moment, Sherlock reached up to gently take the hand, and—_I really have no idea what I'm doing—_bring it down to his lips. He heard the doctor's quiet, sharp intake of breath; heard the heart monitor begin to beep slightly faster. He ignored both, slowly getting out of his cheap, plastic hospital chair and—_I still don't have a clue what I'm doing—,_shifting his position to gaze directly down at his confused face, kissed John Watson.

The smaller man responded almost immediately, moving his hand back up to lock in Sherlock's hair. As he was lying there, he couldn't think about anything else other than—_Sherlock Holmes is kissing me. And I am kissing him back._

Sherlock felt John grin against his lips, and pulled back ever so slightly. John had just enough time to whisper four short words. "It wasn't a dream."

Sherlock smiled as well, and kissed him again.

_I have no idea what I'm doing. But maybe that's okay._


End file.
